The Elder Scrolls: Shadow War
by WarWizard1994
Summary: After the Dragon Crisis, many relief projects are launched in the name of Skyrim's recovery. When a wizard disappears during one of these relief projects, his daughter uncovers a hidden conspiracy poised to radically change Skyrim. The key to Skyrim's fate lies with the Dragonborn, but he mysteriously vanished years ago without a trace . . .
1. Into the Deep

**Chapter One: Into the Deep**

Blackreach was an eerie, perilous place.

The giant fungi and their airborne spores wreathed the immense underground cavern in a ghostly blue haze which easily obscured all but the first few meters of one's vision; the geode veins embedded within the rock reinforced the azure fog with their own radiant auras. The haunting hum of ancient Dwemer technologies rang throughout the cavern like the echo of a lost and forgotten age—an age of technological prowess and dominion over nature.

It was common knowledge that the Dwemer were the most advanced civilization in Tamriel and perhaps, as some speculated, even on Nirn. Their culture prospered all over northern Tamriel from eastern Morrowind all the way to western Hammerfell and flourished so well that, even thousands of years after their disappearance, the fruits of their reason and engineering genius still proudly flaunted their austere, logical glory over the chaotic anarchy of the surrounding nature.

Yet now, these specters of a bygone society loomed over Blackreach as guardians; the stone masonry gazed down upon the wildlife from all corners of the cavern while steam-powered machines combed the empty halls coldly, like mindless mechanical undead. Clashing with these automatons, the primitive Falmer lurked in the shadows for new quarry. Indeed, Blackreach was a dangerous place—the mere mention of its name alone horrified most adventurers.

Wynandil was not most adventurers.

Standing roughly over two meters tall, the Altmer hovered over a comfortable campfire, watching the fire's acrobatic dance through his Dwemer spectacles as he tried his hardest to keep warm. Despite the magic insulation enchantment he had woven into his wizard robes beforehand, Wynandil still shivered from the biting cold climate of Blackreach, which was merely an extension of the deep freeze of snow-covered Skyrim.

Over the span of several years, Wynandil and Calcelmo had collaborated together to study Dwemer technology in an effort to better understand the dormant machines and engineering systems embedded into Markarth. The idea behind the research was to eventually harness said technologies to improve Markarth's living conditions and economic standing in all of Skyrim as well as increase the jarl's political power. Such a project was ambitious, even for the two Altmer.

Now, reported to hide in the depths of the infamous Blackreach, lurked some of the vast quantities of Dwemer knowledge—artifacts, engineering schematics, and weapons that could be examined and reverse engineered to grant the two Altmer insight into realizing their project's quota—just waiting to be found. Wynandil clutched the amulet of Julianos dangling from his neck in anticipation of the knowledge he would glean from his foray in the giant cavern.

Accompanying him in the makeshift camp was a squad of four Stormriders—a new but highly disciplined mercenary outfit seeking to establish themselves as a reputable fighters' guild. Leading the squad was Hulgar the Valiant, a Nord reaching about one-and-three-fifths of a meter in height, his muscular frame encased in Nordic steel armor. His azure eyes focused, Hulgar set about restocking his supplies in preparation for the journey ahead.

To Wynandil's right sat Avares Omoril, a Dunmer spellsword at equal height to Hulgar. The young Dunmer had a voluptuous figure and no qualms about showing it—what little furs and leathers she wore succeeded only in accentuating her smooth, gray flesh and offered scant protection against potential Falmer attacks, let alone the caustic cold air. _How on Nirn is she not freezing?_ Wynandil thought to himself with a shiver.

"Any idea where we're supposed to go?" said Camille, a Breton mage roughly half his height, her brown eyes and thin, mousy frame regarding Wynandil shyly.

"We are currently twenty-one kilometers northeast of the Silent City," Wynandil replied, recounting his memory of the map's layout and scaling. "We will continue our search there."

"The Silent City! But. . . but that place is crawling with countless Falmer," Camille stammered in fear.

"And just what have we been fighting for the past few weeks?" Avares chimed in, her red eyes and sultry voice regarding Camille confidently. "Really, if we could fend them off for this long, we could surely take on more. And we've already looked through the outskirts of Blackreach. The only place left now is the Silent City."

"And this one thinks we might find treasure there too," J'Rakha said, the Khajiit's face and glazed yellow eyes wearing a toothy grin at the thought.

"You guys are missing the point," Camille pleaded. "We've only been fighting small bands of Falmer. Yet the city contains an entire army of those monsters. Worse, there are rumors that they use captured slaves as guards. And you think we're just going to walk on in there, grab whatever Dwemer contraptions we can find, and leave—all without any trouble from such a menace!"

"We are not leaving until we comb _every_ area of this underground cavern," Wynandil enunciated sternly.

"Okay then, mister all-knowing wizard. Explain to me how we're going to survive the suicide mission you're stubbornly bent on pursuing!"

"We will deal with that dilemma when we get there," Wynandil said, quickly losing his patience. "For now, we must focus on the journey there. This expedition is too vital for us to stop now."

Camille stared at him like he was mad. "Oh really. And why, pray tell, should I care about your stupid little project? What's so important about it that we need to die for it? Why must we search that place? Why not another?" Head cast downward, she added weakly, "Who is the Dragonborn?"

That last question brought Wynandil to the end of his indulgence. He grabbed Camille by her robes and sneered dangerously close to her face. "Let me make two things clear. One, _never_ utter that question again. Two, Calcelmo and I have invested too much time and money to allow something as simple as an insufficient search to ruin our project's results."

He glared at her as he continued. "Also, don't forget that Jarl Igmund employed our services for this project, and since Calcelmo hired all of you as my escort party, you too are a part of this project; woe beholds anyone who disappoints the jarl. Think about that the next time you tremble in fear of primitive savages." He finally let go of Camille, ending his tirade.

"Wizard's got a point," Hulgar said soberly, nodding his head toward the Altmer, now fidgeting with the amulet of Zenithar dangling next to the one of Julianos around his neck. "As insane as it sounds, we have no choice but to go to the Silent City. We've cleared every nook and cranny of this place except that ruin."

"Look at it this way," Avares said soothingly. "The sooner we clear that city, the sooner we get home. Azura knows I can't wait to get this job done."

"_Right_," J'Rakha sneered suggestively, making lewd gestures as he continued. "With the way you and Hulgar are with each other, this one thinks you'll be making Dibella proud the first minute we get back."

With an indignant grimace, Avares motioned to slap the Khajiit, but Hulgar stayed her hand before the blow connected, a disgusted scowl on his face.

"So it's settled then," Hulgar said. "In a few hours, we head for the Silent City. I suggest everyone check their stock and make any other preparations needed. I suspect we'll be walking through Oblivion itself once there."

**oOo**

After much preparation, the expedition started its journey toward the Silent City. When the expedition party wasn't fending off Falmer or Dwemer automatons, Wynandil tasked himself with reviewing his notes, puffing on his moonstone pipe as he made triply sure every bit of the expedition's findings was recorded. While he didn't show it outwardly toward his escort, he was rather confused that he found little of note: only a handful of schematics for improved Dwemer armor, a couple of exquisite crossbows, and some scrap metal. Given that he was investigating a massive Dwemer ruin set in an even more massive underground cavern, Wynandil reasoned that he should have found more than he currently had catalogued.

He hoped he could find the source of the strange results—maybe he overlooked a small shadow concealing some priceless artifact or lost something along the way, but his methodical mindset combined with his catalogue contradicted such explanations. A more likely hypothesis was that J'Rakha was holding out on some valuable technologies; after all, he was a kleptomaniac, and his jet-black fur allowed him to bleed into the darkness like a shadow. Yet J'Rakha wasn't a big Khajiit—his wiry frame couldn't carry anything heavier than a few Dwemer cogs throughout the party's travels. Whatever the case, Wynandil was disturbed by this discrepancy. _There should be more to find down here_, he thought to himself. _It is almost as if Blackreach was picked clean beforehand. Yet everyone is too afraid to set foot in here. Who would dare to clean this cavern out?_

Looking up from his notebook, Wynandil put out the burning tobacco in his pipe and stuffed the pipe in his pack as he peered up at the imposing walls of the Silent City, noting the orderly and cogent façade it shared with its sibling structures; from the seamless stonemasonry of the city to the vines of Dwemer steam pipes stretching around its walls, the Silent City still maintained some of the systematic, striking design it had before. Yet now the logic and mathematical harmony added to the already empty, hollow, and foreboding atmosphere the ruin emitted; the local flora had begun to grow over patches of the masonry like gangrenous sores as dust and grime coated the machinery and steam pipes, marring their rational beauty. Some of the city's more fragile components, like the wall-mounted fresco paintings, were rotting away from thousands of years of neglect. The Silent City was but an echo of its former glory.

Hulgar suddenly raised a fist telling the expedition party to stop and regroup. "All right, listen up. Now that we've made it, we'll need to be more cautious." He scanned his sober stare over the party. "First off, we're not going to be like the Companions and just charge on in there like brainless milk-drinkers. Instead, what we're going to do is infiltrate the city." He then turned to the Khajiit. "J'Rakha, you can sneak through the shadows better than any of us. You will scout on ahead and report anything you can about the enemy."

J'Rakha nodded his assent before venturing off into the imposing city.

Hulgar addressed Avares as he continued. "I want you to watch the wizard's back while we set foot in the city. I'll help you, but we might get split up, and we can't afford to botch the job if that happens—least of all in this nightmare of a ruin."

"Aye," Avares replied, her solemn eyes belying her apprehension underneath her red hair.

"Camille, you of all people should know about how deadly Falmer spellcasters can be. If we run into them, I want you to cast whatever hexes, sigils, and barriers you can to combat any foul curses and spells they will no doubt inflict upon us," Hulgar commanded.

Camille nodded, trepidation showing in her face.

"Now, we're all going to stick together and sneak our way into this Divines-forsaken ruin. Use any potions, spells, or other tricks up your sleeve if you need help doing this." Hulgar waved his hand forward. "Follow me, and watch your step."

As the group infiltrated into the city with the aid of potions and magic, Wynandil observed the vast expanse of streets, walkways, parapets, and alleyways diverging and intersecting with one another, forming a labyrinth molded in accordance with an intricate, complex mathematical master plan. To the side of each street stood enormous steam pumps and pistons thrusting cyclically in harmonious tandem with one another. Yet the entropy witnessed outside the city walls ran rampant inside the city as well; the same floral growths, dust-coatings, and decaying machinery were present throughout the ruin. In addition to all of this, some of the finer steam pipes were corroded with bitter brown rust.

Whether in the streets, up above in the walkways and parapets, or hidden within the alleyways, there was never a shortage of Falmer, chaurus, and slaves to sneak past despite J'Rakha's reconnaissance work. Between the Falmer's heightened auditory senses and their slaves' vision, it was a miracle the group wasn't caught and forced to fight through the streets—especially during the numerous close calls that threatened to give the group away.

As they neared the heart of the city, the number of Falmer patrols surprisingly decreased until there were only a few groups of two or three slaves of various races, allowing the party to eliminate a few of the most troublesome pests if they were stealthy enough and J'Rakha hadn't taken them out already. The party still needed to exercise extreme caution through the maze of passageways though, so as not to attract unwanted attention and therefore certain death. Hulgar slowed his crawl to a standstill as he listened in to noises emanating from a fork in the street up ahead.

"Stop. I hear something."

As the expedition party complied, Wynandil noticed something scurrying around in the shadows ahead. As the source of the noises drew closer, he could make out the silhouette of a slave, hunched forward in a grotesque posture. Given its short, stocky build, Wynandil concluded that the slave was a Breton.

Before he could deduce anything further, a loud screech resounded throughout the street. Quickly turning on his heels, Wynandil spotted the source of the screech—a Bosmeri slave roosting atop the balcony of a Dwemer structure. J'Rakha skillfully hurled a throwing knife at the slave, drawing a sickly yellow-green pus as it embedded itself in the wretch's sore-ridden throat, but the damage was already done—the Breton slave up ahead heard the commotion, alerted its masters, and started rushing at the party, now at a disadvantage in the narrow street.

"Gods damn it," Hulgar sighed. "Run!"

Immediately, the party followed Hulgar into the other path down the fork, though they did not find a stratagem to aid them in their fight. Instead, they saw something that nothing could prepare them for.

The party rushed headlong into the Silent City forum, a vast circle of Dwemer towers joined together by thick walls. Immediately ahead of the party loomed a high balcony, no doubt where Dwemer orators had given speeches before their disappearance. Floating above that hovered a giant orb, glowing a gilded radiant light that shone on the entirety of the forum. The golden light also revealed the horde of Falmer arranged in a circle central to the space and the slaves garrisoned in the parapets. As the Falmer patrol behind the party closed in, Hulgar turned frantically toward his squad, panic in his face.

"Take cover!"

Quickly, the party rushed to the closest Dwemer furnishings, thick walls, or anything else protective they could find. Once entrenched in their cover, the party began their counterattack. Camille wove protective sigils in the air to counter the hexes thrown by the spellcasters while Wynandil and Avares hurled volleys of fireballs at incoming slaves in between slashing warriors. J'Rakha somehow managed to perch himself atop a Dwemer pipe, chucking firebombs and throwing knives at the horde of Falmer and their servants as Hulgar thrashed at the enemy, bashing a spellsword to death with his spiked shield.

While Wynandil and the squad of Stormriders were able to slaughter dozens of the brazen creatures, twenty more Falmer and slaves replaced each individual among their fallen; this trend continued despite help from the flame atronachs summoned by Avares and Camille. _We cannot hold out forever_, Wynandil confessed to himself.

Before Wynandil could shudder at the thought, Hulgar hacked his way toward him, a smirk on his face.

"Cover me, wizard. I have an idea."

Curious, Wynandil complied, following Hulgar as he cut through droves of sore-ridden wretches. Out of nowhere, a slave launched itself at Wynandil, gripping his robes as it spewed a foul-smelling black mixture of bile and offal in his face.

"_Ugh_." Wynandil recoiled, throwing the leprous servant off of him—and onto Hulgar's spiked shield.

"You okay, wizard?"

"I am." Wynandil wiped the rotten sludge off of his face before continuing. "Now let us see this idea of yours."

Continuing, Wynandil trailed Hulgar toward the center of the forum . . . directly underneath the floating orb.

Already connecting the dots in his mind, Wynandil realized what Hulgar intended to do.

Hulgar secured his footing, breathed deeply, and Shouted.

"_Fus_!"

The orb rang loudly like a bell and released a brilliant flash of light when the Shout hit, disorienting and sowing chaos among the forum. When Wynandil regained his faculties, he saw tides of Falmer keeled over and screaming in agony, ears bleeding. The slaves merely floundered about aimlessly like soulless zombies, blinded and deafened from the orb's blast. Eyebrow raised, Wynandil turned to Hulgar.

"You must teach me how to do that next time you get a chance."

Hulgar chuckled. "If you walk the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar, the Greybeards can teach you instead. They would do better than me; that's for sure."

Turning toward the rest of his squad, Hulgar shouted, "Fall in!"

Having turned the tables on the horde, Hulgar led his squad on the counteroffensive, cleaving through the crippled sea of Falmer and their slaves alongside Avares while Wynandil joined Camille in suppressing the magical attacks of the few spellcasters still in fighting shape.

During the wholesale slaughter, Wynandil thought he heard a sound in the distance, like a sabre cat howling menacingly. _Now that is odd_, he thought; sabre cats aren't found in Blackreach. He didn't have time to ponder the anomaly any further, not with the slaves beginning to recover from their debilitation.

"I can't believe it," Camille chanted in hopeful glee between spells. "We've actually got a chance!" Her sudden change in demeanor was a far cry from her somber mood earlier.

"Don't be arrogant," Wynandil chided. "Just keep casting spells and the enemy will fall soon enough." _Acting foolish will guarantee you a quick death_, he added mentally.

He then turned to Hulgar and Avares. "How are you two faring?"

Both of them regarded him confidently while slashing the enemy. "We're still hanging on here. And J'Rakha left to find a way to keep the Falmer from regrouping, so we should finish this scum off soon."

Just then, Wynandil heard that noise again, though this time it thundered across all off the Silent City much more deeply. It wasn't long after he heard that roar again when a shadow swept across the forum, raining liquid fire upon a large swathe of the Falmer horde.

"What in Oblivion is _that!_" Camille shrieked in horror.

"It can't be," Hulgar whispered, utterly demoralized. "It's a—"

The shadow swooped down toward the expedition party, revealing itself as it landed a several meters in front of Hulgar. Adorned with red scales, the winged creature stared intently at Hulgar with its raptor-like gaze as it wagged its lithe tail excitedly. Then it did something that took Wynandil completely by surprise: it growled something at the party—an unintelligible something, that was certain, but it still acknowledged them all the same—as though it were sentient.

"_Dragon_!"

Just then, the dragon reeled back and lunged forward, gripping Hulgar in its gruesome maw.

"_Hulgar!_" Avares screamed, watching the beast rend Hulgar into shreds before eating him alive.

The group then retreated out through the forum entrance into the Silent City with Wynandil trailing behind them; before he caught up with them, however, the winged behemoth belched a giant ball of bloody fire and bits of offal toward the entrance, sending the archway crashing down to the ground—cutting off Wynandil's escape.

Realizing he was trapped, Wynandil slowly turned toward the creature and stared it straight in its reptilian eyes, sword raised. _Irinde, my love__, _he thought to himself, his amulet of Zenithar pressed to his lips_. __I am coming._


	2. The Story Begins

**Chapter Two: The Story Begins**

Flames danced around the forum.

Wynandil strained to keep himself alive as he fended off the dragon circling in the air, sweating from the effort. The simmering heat of draconic fire didn't help either, the blaze seething with deadly purpose as it clashed with the protective wards he flung around himself. Wynandil tried to fight back with spells, but the winged horror flew through them unscathed. _This behemoth is nigh invincible!_ he thought grimly.

The dragon swooped down toward Wynandil and lunged at him, missing by mere centimeters and crash-landing several meters away with an earth-shaking boom. Before the red scaly beast could get back up, Wynandil unsheathed his sword and charged. Teeth struck against blade as the dragon snapped its bloody maw at him repeatedly.

"Have at you, dragon!"

As the giant terror reeled its jaws back with a deep breath, Wynandil rolled underneath the beast's belly, tearing a rending gash in its reptilian flesh.

With a wrathful roar, the dragon pushed gusts of wind toward the ground, trying to regain its aerial advantage. Anticipating that this would happen sooner or later, Wynandil grabbed hold of the fiend's scaly tail, joining it in its flight high above the Silent City. He strained to keep hold of the creature as it tried to shake him off. Throughout the struggle, the dragon kept taunting Wynandil in its indecipherable tongue.

"You will not be rid of me that easily," Wynandil barked, a determined scowl on his face.

Just then, his grip faltered as the behemoth flung him off of its tail. As he tumbled down the rocky cliffs below, he gazed upon his amulet of Zenithar with a bewildered look in his eyes.

**oOo**

It seemed like it had been an eternity when Wynandil finally woke up.

The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the excruciating pain of hitting the ground at terminal velocity, back first. He was certain the dragon was flying a several kilometers above the rocky ground of Blackreach when it threw him off its tail. By all rights, such a fall should have killed him instantly; so how was it that he was still alive?

Sluggishly, Wynandil glanced over his surroundings, seeking some clue as to where he was. Despite his efforts, all he could see was a thick wall of blackness, enveloping the space around him like a miasma of darkness. While the darkness imposed an eerie ambiance of foreboding on the atmosphere, the air was anything but intimidating. Not too cold and not too warm, the Altmer's exposed arms judged it to be the perfect temperature.

Wait. Exposed arms?

Frantically, Wynandil pulled himself up to examine himself, finding himself wearing not the insulated wizard robes from his expedition but instead a plain red tunic and white breeches. While gazing at his new attire—which he found rather comfortable and to his liking—he also gasped at the next surprise awaiting him: his body was unscathed! Checking his senses, the Altmer flexed his arms, fingers, legs, and toes; each of his appendages still worked. While he wasn't complaining, Wynandil was nevertheless baffled at how he could still be unharmed after such a high drop. Nothing could rationally explain this phenomenon except for one thing.

_Dear Julianos,_ Wynandil thought._ I am in Aetherius!_

Almost on cue, a flash of light engulfed the area for a split second, leaving behind a series of ghostly mathematical forms in its wake, most of which Wynandil knew by name. Sinusoids danced alongside differentials and definite integrals in the air, the forms alive with purpose as they spawned three-dimensional walls, shapes, and objects within the space around the amazed Altmer. Curves integrated into cylinders, parabolas differentiated lines, and sinusoids raced through at lightning speed. It was a symphony of mathematical calculations performing right before the wizard's very eyes.

Immediately, the forms began to merge together, building a scene recognizable to the average person. The cylinders became columns, the lines connected to form solid prisms, and the sinusoids decreased their amplitudes and increased their frequencies until they became nigh invisible. The black, empty space was soon replaced by a large forum, built like the Imperial architecture found in Cyrodiil.

Once the symphony ended, a portal opened in front of Wynandil, producing a giant of a man. A third of a meter taller than the Altmer wizard, the man wore simple, gray wizard robes, moving fluidly with every step. The large figure sported a thick, gray beard that caressed his face like a furry bib, contrasting drastically with his shiny bald scalp. Though the man's hair gave him a sense of seniority, his frame belied a hidden potency within his being; the man's muscles bulged with immense tension like an Orsimer's, combining with his barreled chest and thick legs to form an image of power—power of a man wholly loyal to logic and reason, to reality.

The man peered at the Altmer with a curious grin on his patrician face. "Ah. Wynandil, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Julianos!" The wide-eyed wizard gasped. "The pleasure is mutual, but I must ask you: did I die?"

The wizened figure gazed upon the Altmer wizard with scrutiny. "If that were true, then I would not be speaking to you. I assure you that you are not in Aetherius but in Mundus, alive and . . . mostly intact. But that is not the main point of contention here. I am afraid I am here to ask something of you, something altogether very serious and important. Do you think you are up to the task?"

The Altmer puffed his chest outward with confidence "I might not always carry out my endeavors flawlessly or even successfully, but I am always willing to meet any challenge with calculated, rational ambition. How may I help you?"

"I thank you for hearing me out. I cannot express enough how much I wish I did not have to do this, but it is good to know that I still have allies in Mundus who are willing to help with extremely dire matters."

Julianos continued. "The state of events in Mundus has been getting worse and worse with each passing moment. Mortals have increasingly turned their backs on logic and reason, turning instead toward the subjective whims, emotional appeals, and popular consensus of others. The result of this trend was the slow, steady decay of the Empire—which continues to this day—and the rise of the Aldmeri Dominion. You can guess what that led to. The only hope for Mundus given this scenario lay in Alduin, bane of kings.

"Yet, still thinking this trend could be reversed, I beseeched Akatosh to send the last Dragonborn to Mundus in order to stop Alduin. However, the Dragonborn's success only ensured the continuation of the crippling chaos engulfing mortal affairs. Frustrated, the Dragonborn vanished out of the public eye, leaving behind the ongoing discord begotten after the Oblivion Crisis. Are you familiar with everything I have said thus far?"

Wynandil nodded soberly. "I am all too aware of what you speak, though I always thought it was just people being stupid and not knowing better."

The god of wisdom shook his head slowly. "I wish I had your optimism, but alas, this is not the product of ignorance. Something is happening in Mundus, something deleterious to all intelligence. Now, I ask of you; will you find the Dragonborn, and right whatever corrupt wrongs are besieging Mundus?"

Wynandil shrugged. "I will help you, but I do not understand how I could get a guilt-ridden Dragonborn to help me; I do not even know where he is."

The god smiled. "While the Dragonborn most likely will not agree to help you at first, he will eventually see the consequences of postponing the inevitable. I think you will succeed in recruiting his assistance in this matter."

Julianos's face contorted into a stern mask of warning as he continued. "Be careful in your dealings with him, Wynandil. The Dragonborn has suffered grievously under the same evil I have explained to you, and he still harbors a deep psychotic resentment. If you are reckless in your endeavor to seek his assistance . . . well, that should go unsaid.

"As for finding him, well, I will say this: even given the sheer hostility shown toward my principles of logic and reason, I still have allies operating all over Mundus besides you. I think they will be more than able and willing to help you in your quest."

The Altmer merely looked up at the Divine with confusion in his eyes. "And how will I find them?"

Julianos replied, a knowing wink in his eye "Do not worry too much about them. I suspect they might be a lot closer than you think . . ."

**oOo**

Deep within the crags of Blackreach's cliffs, Judge Hoth Roarken and his squad trudged through their usual patrol, their plate boots pleating with every step. Judge Roarken ran a hand through his short, copper hair as he scanned the area, his gray eyes cast in a vigilant frown. His bluish-green armor reflecting the azure hue of the giant glowing mushrooms, Judge Roarken's brawny figure reached a resolute meter-and-four-sixths over his squad members.

"See anything yet, lieutenant?" he inquired.

"Negative, Your Honor," Lieutenant Elsa replied. Her hazel, Breton eyes regarded him professionally from underneath her blue-green helm. "I'm still looking."

"And you, Bosch?"

The Nord soldier to Roarken's far left turned toward him, the brass-colored mail he wore ringing slightly with the motion. "Nope. Nothing, Your Honor."

"Well, keep searching. The Supreme Justice needs to know what's going on in his domain, and I want to be able to inform him of anything suspicious."

Just then, a heavily accented voice cried out. "Your Honor. You need to come and see this."

Judge Roarken rushed down the rocky crag toward the source of the voice, gavel and shield at the ready. When he got there, he looked to where the soldier, an Argonian, pointed and stared at his find, intrigued. On the ground lay the battered, bleeding body of an Altmer wizard.

Kneeling over the body, Judge Roarken regarded the Argonian soldier. "Good work, Seeks-The-Truth."

While examining the body, Judge Roarken raked a hand through the Altmer's short blonde hair, the dried blood sticking to his fingers. After inspecting the High Elf's head, Roarken spotted the two amulets wrapped around his neck. He smiled when he recognized them as amulets of Julianos, god of wisdom and logic, and Zenithar, god of honest work and free trade. Yet, the startling thing about the mage was that his chest was still rising and falling rhythmically. _By the Two_, he thought. _He's still breathing! He's still alive!_

"I also found these a couple meters away," Seeks-The-Truth said, holding out a broken pair of brass Dwemer spectacles, the lenses shattered into tiny pieces—broken just like the Altmer's body.

While the Altmer was alive, he was undoubtedly hanging on desperately with little time left. Unless Roarken acted fast, the wizard would die.

"Bosch, Seeks-The-Truth, take the body back to the Supreme Justice. He will want to know what we found. The lieutenant and I will continue our patrol."

"Acknowledged, Your Honor." Both soldiers gave a salute and went about their task.

As Roarken resumed his patrol, Lieutenant Elsa leaned toward him with a bewildered expression on her soft, smooth face. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" Roarken inquired, puzzled by his aide's question.

"You had Bosch and Seeks-The-Truth take that topsoiler back to the Supreme Justice. Aren't you the least concerned of the potential dangers it poses?"

"Lieutenant, he had an amulet of Zenithar and an amulet of Julianos around his neck; he's a comrade, just like us."

While Lieutenant Elsa seemed satisfied with Roarken's justification, one question lingered in his mind: _Who are you, Comrade?_

**oOo**

"No! Absolutely not!" Erissa glowered down upon Enthir, the short lanky Bosmer pleading up at her persistently as he molded his bluish lips in a pout.

"Aw, c'mon doll face," Enthir prodded. "You have an entire collection of soul gems. Surely you can part with one?"

"I said _no_!"

"But I need it. Please, you must help me. You won't even miss it. You can replace it easily."

"No. That soul gem is for Arniel's research. You cannot have it."

"Erissa, I need it more than Arniel. I know he can afford a slight delay in his Dwemer project."

"I already told you. I do not care how much you need it; you are not getting that soul gem." The Altmer stood her ground resolutely, maintaining her gilded glare through her disheveled blonde hair.

Enthir glared at her spitefully. "Gods damn you! Why do you always have to be so stubborn? See, that's why you don't have more friends. If you actually _cared_ about people and gave them your time when they _needed_ you, you would be popular! Friends should mean more to you than your petty research and education. You must be completely selfish if they don't."

Erissa grimaced in disgust. "_Get out_, scum!"

Defeated, Enthir turned to leave, but he stopped and sneered at her. "I have more friends than you—friends in really high places. Just remember that."

As the wood elf finally left, Erissa returned to her desk and continued scrutinizing a new spell tome with a frustrated groan. Every time she started doing something important—maintaining her studies, helping out with Arniel Gane's Dwemer project, or assisting Urag gro-Shub in his efforts to keep his Arcaneum organized—that annoying runt of a Bosmer would always show up to harass her. Ever since she returned from her quest to get the warped soul gem heated enough for Arniel's research, the unscrupulous wood elf would launch a begging offensive in a despirate attempt to get it. But before the soul gem dilemma, he would sometimes ask her for favors regarding his "friends": find staves for his black market dealings, cover for him when he skipped several lectures to fence loot for the Thieves Guild, and generally keep silent about his other morally dubious activities. Enthir's persistent harrying was so bad that Erissa sometimes caught herself wondering how the wood elf even got into the College of Winterhold in the first place.

As annoying as the morally bankrupt elf was, Erissa still enjoyed her life at the college. She never missed a single lecture, always noting anything important to her knowledge of arcane theory. As a result, she had a large bookshelf full of her many notes, some of the books barely fitting on the shelf. She worked hard on her studies, but enjoyed every minute of it. It also helped that today was the Second of Sun's Dawn, a very special day to her.

While Enthir was right about her not having many friends, Erissa didn't care too much; the few friends she had were able to further her studies and actually cared about college-related activities as much as she did, keeping up with her knowledge flawlessly. That's all she needed in terms of friends—she couldn't afford to spare a single moment worrying about anyone who didn't bring her closer to her goals.

Looking at the shrine of Zenithar on her desk, she thought to herself, _I wish you were here, Mom._ She fondly remembered all of the times she spent with her mother—all the shopping the two of them did, the lessons Erissa's mother would teach her about mercantilism and the value of money, and the potions they brewed together. _I miss you,_ Erissa added.

But while her mother was not around, her father still was. Being the only relative she still had, Erissa held her father dearly close to her heart, looking up to him when things went horribly wrong. It was her father's reverence of knowledge and reason that inspired her to achieve mastery of the arcane arts, that inspiration culminating into her ambition to join the College of Winterhold. Remembering his journey to a Dwemer ruin eight and a half weeks ago, Erissa cradled the amulet of Julianos around her neck.

_I miss you too, Dad,_ she thought. _I hope you are well._

After an hour of keeping her notes in order, Erissa put away her notes and gathered the warped soul gem Enthir desperately wanted, heading off to Arniel's laboratory to continue helping him with his project. Since she had the entire day off from lectures, she saw an opportunity to make significant progress in Arniel's Dwemer research.

As she walked through the college courtyard, she noticed the many hundreds of young aspiring wizards milling about, each of them trading the latest gossip, news, and highlights of the past few weeks. The perimeter of the college wrapped itself around the large expanse like a castle, its many towers reaching toward the gray, overcast sky. Weaving through the closest congregation of students, Erissa turned her head this way and that, trying to find the entrance to the laboratories. She had almost made it to the door when she heard a familiar voice call out to her.

"Erissa!" A tall, dark-haired Imperial sprinted toward her, his tan, lean frame suited to the quick pace of his stride.

"Scipio," Erissa replied, walking toward her friend. "I thought you were supposed to be with Phinis doing field work for your conjuration research."

"I was," Scipio said. "But Phinis rescheduled the trip. Seems he has more important things to do—not that I'm complaining; I just get the chance to wish my favorite elven friend a happy birthday." The Imperial grinned sheepishly, his cheeks beet red.

"Why, thank you," Erissa cooed. "It's about time someone noticed. So, what's on your mind?"

Immediately, his demeanor changed drastically as he asked solemnly, "Oh. Well, have you heard about the Forsworn in the Reach?"

"No," the Altmer admitted, a curious frown forming across her sharp, angular features. "What about them?"

Blatantly apprehensive, Scipio explained. "Word among my sources is that the terrorist tribals are getting more and more brazen with their attacks on Nordic citizens, coordinating their raids under an upstart they call Vercingetorix. One even claimed they started using improvised terror weapons, rigging horses with fireblast sigils capable of leveling small shacks."

With a gasp, Erissa replied. "That sounds serious. I hope the Markarth Guard takes care of everything. Julianos knows we have enough problems as it is."

"Yeah. About that," Scipio stammered, a horrified look building in his green eyes. "While I was in Solitude a month ago, I noticed several shops stood empty; not a single store in the market district was open. Even scarier, a few of the shops in Whiterun looked equally dead. I asked around in both cities, getting mixed answers. Some shrugged, saying they didn't care—after all, the businesses still in operation had more customers than ever. Others cringed, wishing the merchants would return and bring the economy soring sky high."

Leaning toward Erissa, Scipio's terrified face added, "However, the scariest answer I got came from the poor, who asked a single question: Who is the Dragonborn?"

The sheer horror building in Scipio's eyes radiated violently as he gripped the Altmer's apprentice robes. "Erissa, what is going on here? Why is all this chaos happening? Who _is_ the Dragonborn? I can no longer sleep at night, not between these disappearances, the increased Forsworn activity in Markarth, and the damned Civil War still ravaging the province; no matter how hard I try, I just can't ignore all the discord I see everywhere!"

"I do not know, Scipio," Erissa plead, steadying her lithe form as the Imperial released his grip on her robes. "Stop scaring me."

"Sorry," Scipio sighed, turning his head to the side. "I got carried away. I guess I better head back to my room—I have notes to study."

Erissa nodded sympathetically, turning to leave. "You do that."

As she waved good-bye to her friend, the things he said swirled around in her mind in a rush like a torrential rain. _It is true then? Businesses across Skyrim really are going away._ As quickly as this recent revelation raced through her head, she shook the thoughts away, deciding she couldn't afford to worry about them now—not with her collaboration with Arniel Gane to work on.

**oOo**

When Erissa got to Arniel's laboratory, she scanned the room, taking in the myriad Dwemer artifacts that littered the examination tables. On a couple of tables, several dismantled Dwemer spiders lay sprawled open, their mechanical entrails strewn in disorganized heaps across the surface. In the corners of the lab, taxidermied Dwemer sphere guardians loomed like hollow specters. Just under the ceiling, a giant glowing mass of orbs hovered over the space, illuminating the manifest experiments in a radiant, sapphire light. Hunched over a Dwemer Centurion chassis, Arniel dug through the automaton's metal guts with fervent interest.

As Erissa entered the lab, she noticed Arniel's good mood. The Imperial shot up from the Dwemer Centurion chassis he was examining and perked up when he saw her, a bright smile beaming from under his hood.

"Ah," he said excitedly. "You're here. Good. And you got the soul gem I need. But I'm afraid I need to ask you for another favor."

Smiling, Erissa walked over to Arniel. "What do you need?"

"Well, while you were out gathering that soul gem, I received word from a contact in Morrowind predicting that a courier carrying the dagger Keening crossed the border into Skyrim three weeks ago. You _are_ familiar with the history of this artifact, correct?"

Erissa nodded her confirmation, allowing Arniel to continue.

"Well despite my contact's insistent estimate that the courier would arrive yesterday, the courier never showed up. Without that artifact, my research can't continue. If you could retrieve it for me, the project could resume."

Noticing the worried look on Erissa's face, he added, "Don't worry. I spoke with Tolfdir and Faralda in advance; they already approved your search and excused your absence. And I even assembled a team to help you. Now, if you'll follow me. . ."

As they entered Arniel's office, Erissa was shocked to see the mercenary escort waiting inside. While she wasn't scared of a few bruised and battered warriors brandishing weapons, she gasped as her eidetic memory recognized the familiar faces she had seen with her father on the day he left.

"Camille! Avares! You two look like you've been through Oblivion and back. What happened?"

Both mercenaries hugged the Altmer. "We encountered a dragon lurking among the Falmer in Blackreach," Camille blurted out. "We barely made it out alive."

Stunned, Erissa returned the group hug. "I am glad you are both okay, but—"

"Well," Arniel interjected impatiently, clearing his throat. "Now that we're all here, let me brief you on your quest. The courier was last seen in Riften, at the Bee and Barb. Your best bet is to ask around there. But be careful; the relic is dangerous. If you're reckless in its handling, it could kill you."

"We'll be careful," Avares said, a strange forlorn expression on her face. "Now, Erissa. What were you saying?"

"I was about to ask you if the others made it out okay too," the Altmer inquired, her smile diminishing slightly.

"Oh," Camille chimed in. "Well, J'Rakha ran off on his own and never regrouped with us, and Hulgar got eaten by the dragon we found. But worst of all, W—"

"Erissa!" J'Zargo barged into the room, determination radiating from his every step. "Khajiit heard you were going outside the college for a while. J'Zargo was hoping to join you."

"Sure thing, J'Zargo. I would be honored if you would join me. Was there anything else you came in here for?"

"Yes. J'Zargo also heard that it's your birthday today. First of Sun's Height, no? This one came to give his best wishes."

"Thank you," Erissa said gratefully, turning to the mercenaries, their faces paling in sheer terror.

"Now, what were you saying?"

"Um," Camille stammered feverishly. "Uh, we were saying Hulgar didn't make it. Yes, that's it. _Right_ Avares?"

"Yes," Erissa replied. "I caught all of that, but you did not finish the last bit of what you were saying."

The sellswords glanced at each other as if deciding who among the two was to die first. Each would reluctantly start to speak, but trail off in a cacophony of stuttering.

"Come on," the Altmer pried. "I did not use my birthday wish yet. Please do not make me start now."

The two mercenaries relented, the anxiety on their faces growing clearer by the minute.

"Alright, Erissa," the Dunmer sighed. "I wish I didn't have to tell you this, especially on your birthday, but Wynandil . . . um, your father. He . . ."

Understanding Avares's traumatized tone of voice, Erissa sighed, a look of sadness in her eyes. "I see. Well, thank you for telling me, friend. Let me grab a few things from my room, and I will meet up with you at the college gates."

As she walked back to her room, she ran the news through her mind repeatedly, suppressing the emotions threatening to overtake her as she railed against Avares's statement defiantly. _No!_ She told herself. _That cannot be! Avares is lying!_

When she finally reached the solace of her room, Erissa sat at her desk, holding her amulet of Julianos closely to her eyes as she studyed the intricately engraved equilateral triangle that represented the Divine's principles of logic, reason, and truth. _But why would Avares lie to me?_ Erissa asked herself, tears finally welling up in her eyes. _She is my friend and has nothing to gain by deceiving me. And if Dad was still alive, why is he not here with her and Camille?_

At that moment, Erissa's emotional resolve shattered. Tears flowing down her cheekbones like tiny streams, she collapsed against her desk and sobbed silently—she dare not give sound to the vulgarity of emotional weakness. All of her memories of her father flashed before her eyes, from the education he personally provided for her in her early childhood to the dangers they faced on their way to Skyrim. _After all the obstacles we surmounted . . . _

After what seemed like an eternity of stoic grief, Erissa regained enough composure to gather much-needed supplies for the task at hand. _Why did Dad have to die?_ She pondered, wiping the still-flowing tears from her eyes as she stuffed her alchemy instruments in her pack. _Why did there have to be a dragon in Blackreach?_

Remembering Scipio's anxious rambling earlier, Erissa answered herself with a final question. "Who is the Dragonborn?"


	3. The Investigation Briefing

**Chapter Three: The Investigation Briefing**

Erissa huddled close to the campfire, wrapped in her extra thick furs, as a dense blizzard engulfed the evening wilderness of Winterhold in bitter cold. While the giant cave alongside the roadway protected the camp from the biting wind, the dull freeze nevertheless brought the Altmer mage significant discomfort. The temperature was harsh enough to burn her lungs with every breath she took, leaving a mist-like vapor. At least the fire provided enough warmth to mitigate the worst of Skyrim's unforgiving weather.

Looking around, Erissa could see the others' mixed reactions to the cold. To the far right, Camille and J'Zargo huddled together within their thick furs, desperately seeking any reprieve from the weather. Even with their combined efforts, both the Khajiit and Breton still shivered as profusely as Erissa. Despite her own discomfort, the Altmer was thankful for the extra insulation she had magically woven into her furs, or she would have joined the trembling duo.

By contrast, Avares lay on her side, examining an amulet of Talos closely with a forlorn look in her eyes. She wore a new set of tanned leather armor she had purchased back in Winterhold. While the form-fitting attire lacked an insulating enchantment and appeared to give off more heat than it kept in, the Dunmer nevertheless looked quite comfortable, as though she were lounging in a Cyrodiilic inn. _How does she stay warm?_ Erissa thought to herself. _I should ask her someday._

Accompanying the party within the cave was a Khajiit caravan taking shelter from the thick snowstorm. Their wagons, bearing the signature exotic design of the feline merchants, sat outside along with the native Nordic horses drawing them, further insulating the cave from the biting wind. However, this added protection failed to keep the Khajiit any warmer than Erissa's adventure party, the wandering peddlers shivering just as severely as J'Zargo and Camille. Despite their discomfort, the Khajiit had no trouble making conversation as Erissa overheard a few of the merchants introduce themselves and mingle with the others.

"Ashira is glad to meet a fellow Khajiit in this land of bitter cold," one of the merchants said, her content expression turned toward J'Zargo. "Not many of our kind dare to wander this land."

"J'Zargo shares your joy," the Khajiiti mage replied. "How go things back home?"

Another peddler, S'Drago, regarded J'Zargo with a saddened expression on his face. "The standard of living declines with the Dominion's heavy taxes ravaging the economies of both Anequina and Pelletine."

"Sounds like the High Rock I left behind," Camille interjected. "With the Civil War in effect, trade between Imperial provinces was strained enough to force my family and me into Skyrim to escape the widespread poverty. Things were so bad, the nobility even considered petitioning for the reformation of the Daggerfall Covenant!" Gesturing toward the entire caravan, the Breton added, "At least your province has a lifeline."

"And yet we barely earn enough gold to turn up a profit for ourselves," Ashira lamented. "This blasted war stunts business. Fellow merchants and potential patrons turn away from the market and toward the battlefield, assuming we even encounter any other merchants to trade with."

That last sentiment got Erissa's undivided attention. With Scipio's fearful fit vividly replaying in her mind, the high elf tensed.

Her apprehension was obvious, as Ashira stared knowingly at her. "You know of what Khajiit speaks, yes?"

Erissa nodded. "The scary thing is nobody knows why everything is so dire. All of this chaos runs amok throughout Skyrim and no one has a rational explanation for it. This entropy never got so bad while the Dragonborn was still around." An eerie silence took hold of the group, each face wearing a frustrated expression.

"Who is the Dragonborn?" Ashira answered futilely. "All this one knows is that times are hard, and I must work harder to keep from sinking into the muck. Why, Khajiit plans to head to Riften in search of better trade, lest I succumb to the economic decay around me."

Suddenly, Avares perked up, her eyes and ears trained on the Khajiit merchant. "Is that so?"

Ashira and S'Drago nodded their confirmation. "This one figured there would be more businessmen to trade with," Ashira clarified.

"Well that's convenient," Avares said. "We have business there too, but if the weather impedes our progress any further, it could take us weeks to reach the city."

"So you want to join our caravan for the journey?"

Seeing Avares nod, the Khajiit trader stared the Dunmer straight in the eye interestedly. "While we do have room for four more passengers in our caravan, what can this one expect in return?"

Erissa perked up, grabbing her coin pouch as she answered Ashira. "I have enough gold to sustain your caravan until we reach Riften and then some. It is yours if you let us tag along." She passed the pouch to Ashira and watched her inspect it.

After much weighing and counting, the Khajiit merchant turned to the Altmer once more. "Five hundred gold!" Ashira exclaimed. "An impressive amount, but barely enough to cover the journey to Riften. Anything else?"

Erissa searched her belt again, but didn't find anything more to pay the peddler with. "Well I—"

Before the high elf could finish, J'Zargo held a massive coin purse and an amulet out toward the peddler with an impish grin. "J'Zargo believes this should adequately buy us passage to Riften."

Erissa was stunned. _How on Nirn did he get that much gold!_ While it was true that the College of Winterhold gave its members a substantial budget for their adventures outside college grounds, the large pouch in J'Zargo's claws must have contained well over seven-hundred-fifty septims—and that was excluding the astronomical value of the amulet he had. She could see similar incredulity play out in the others' faces, their minds no doubt processing the many questions regarding J'Zargo's astonishing wealth.

"Why the surprise?" J'Zargo asked indignantly, scolding the others. "J'Zargo is easily the wealthiest member of the college, because gold is naturally attracted to J'Zargo. In fact, J'Zargo could make snow turn into gold if he really wanted. This offer proves it."

"Oh, please teach us lowly commoners how to make more gold, oh mighty and wealthy J'Zargo," Camille drawled, feigning admiration. She cast her head down and muttered to herself, "Snow into gold, my ass."

Regardless of J'Zargo's claims, the offer worked. "Indeed," Ashira replied, her eyes gleamed with a pleasure as she returned J'Zargo's smirk. "Welcome aboard!"

Ashira's grin widened as J'Zargo and Erissa handed over their respective portions of payment. S'Drago likewise beamed with a fortunate smile, glad that the caravan now had more gold for trading. While the Khajiit radiated with relief, Avares and Camille maintained their confused frowns, amazed that the dark elf's plan to shorten their journey had worked.

When Ashira finished adding the payment to her satchel, she addressed the entire group.

"First thing tomorrow morning we make for Riften by way of Eastmarch. While we will actively avoid Windhelm, the Nords in the countryside still will not take kindly to our presence, so this one suggests making utmost haste while we are there. For now, let us rest; we have a long journey ahead of us."

Ashira headed back to her wagon to join the rest of the caravan; gesturing for J'Zargo and S'Drago to follow suit.

"Well that's reassuring," Avares sighed. "That means we'll be in Riften within roughly five days, and we only need to concern ourselves with minimal Stormcloak patrols."

Camille turned toward the rest of the group around the campfire, her eyes weary. "It's getting late," she yawned, indicating the pinkish-amber sky above. "I'll be in my bedroll."

"I'm out too," Avares said, glancing at Erissa.

Erissa shrugged. "Good night then."

As the Dunmer and Breton made for their bedrolls, Erissa pulled her bedroll close to the fire and lay down, pulling out her copy of _The Scarlet Rose_, a story about a werewolf hunter named Scarlet in a foreign land. She barely finished the first few chapters detailing the hunter's early life in the village of Oakvale before the blurry haze of sleep overtook her.

**oOo**

_Erissa examined her surroundings, a blue fog masking the ancient stone masonry in an otherworldly aura. The many bronze-colored towers peered down toward a large clearing roughly two kilometers in diameter. Flames raced through the clearing, licking the bases of many of the towers. Within seconds, Erissa saw something that shook her to the core._

_Several meters ahead, under a golden-orange orb, Erissa's father cast a ward as a huge red beast vomited a torrent of fire. The beast's webbed wings flapped gusts of wind toward the Altmeri wizard, keeping itself airborne as it sprayed flames all over the clearing. Its scales shone as red as its reptilian eyes, and its black teeth and claws were stained with blood. Erissa gasped in horror at the spectacle. The Dragon._

"_Hold on, Dad," Erissa shouted._

_Erissa tried to rush into the thick of the battle—to help her father defeat the dragon—but no matter how much she strained, an invisible force kept her still. Unable to join the fight, Erissa reluctantly resigned herself to watching the battle unfold._

_After the dragon's maw missed the wizard by mere centimeters, the wizard slashed at the fiend's chest, leaving a gash embedded in the red wall of scales. As the creature reeled back in pain, Erissa's father turned to her, a victorious and confident smile on his face._

"_This is for you, Dearest," he called out to her._

_But Erissa could only return his valiant expression with a wide-eyed look of horror as the dragon lunged toward her father, its gruesome maw open wide._ No!_ She screamed to herself._

"_Look out!" She shouted toward her father, but it was too late. As soon as the wizard noticed the dragon's jaws rushing toward him, several jagged teeth impaled him fatally. As the creature proceeded to chew on her father's lifeless body, Erissa collapsed to the ground, wailing loudly in defeat._

_She could hear the dragon inhale loudly, preparing a blast of draconic fire, but everything faded to black before any flames escaped the fiend's maw._

**oOo**

Erissa jumped up from her bedroll frantically, trembling under the weight of the many emotions surging through her body. Adrenaline fueled by grief and fear boiled within her core. Wiping the fresh tears from her eyes, she looked around the cavern campsite, the many colors of midnight Skyrim dancing around the myriad stars in the dark sky.

Deciding not to go back to sleep, Erissa sat up and groped through her pack, pulling out her alchemy instruments. With her apparatuses laid out before her, she then arranged her moderately sized collection of ingredients—ranging from common ingredients like hanging moss, wheat, and blisterwort, to harder-to-get reagents such as giant's toe and bear claws—by their alchemical properties.

With her tools, solutes, and ingredients organized neatly, Erissa began her potion brewing, the memories of her mother's tutelage guiding her hand. _First, you must grind the reagents into a fine powder,_ her mother had said during one of their sessions. Erissa threw a giant's toe and a few bear claws into the mortar and began grinding them with the pestle. After several minutes, she added a bundle of hanging moss into the mixture and continued grinding.

As Erissa worked, she instantly began to feel her turbulent emotions calm down to tolerable levels. Brewing potions not only brought back the fonder memories of her mother, but also instilled in her a sense of purpose and productivity. When she caught herself feeling lazy or upset, she could always count on alchemy to keep her busy and focused.

But her session of potion brewing only placated her emotions—the afterimage of her dream still haunted her mind. While the worst of the emotional impact regarding her father's death faded over the week and a half she spent on the road to Riften, the hollow feeling of solitude still remained. The idea that her father—her greatest role model, confidante, and mentor since her mother—had died in an underground Dwemer ruin left a sobering realization in her mind: without her father to provide counsel, she now had to tread through the rest of her life alone.

True, Erissa wasn't the only one to have lost family—after all, Avares did say Hulgar perished in the ruin as well, not to mention the many others who lost their loved ones long ago. But other victims of untimely deaths had recovered from their grief by now and would be unfairly encumbered by another's burdens. Erissa couldn't do that to Avares in good conscience.

"At least you and Mom are together again, Dad," Erissa sighed wistfully, pouring her finished potions from the heated alembic dangling above the campfire.

"Not sleeping well, I take it?"

Erissa turned quickly toward the source of the question, spotting Avares standing over her right shoulder. The Dunmer wore a mask of empathic friendliness and warmth.

"Indubitably," Erissa replied flatly.

Avares knelt over the Altmer's shoulder to meet her eyes, smiling welcomingly. "Something you want to talk about?" She cooed inquisitively.

"No."

Avares sat beside the high elf, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer. "Erissa, I can read you well enough to know something's on your mind. Now tell me."

Erissa stared back at the dark elf stoically. "Nothing serious. I just need to toughen up and let time do the rest."

The dark elf's face contorted to a concerned scowl. "There's nothing wrong with confiding in a friend about your feelings, and given recent . . . _circumstances_, you could really use a friend right now."

"Like I said, I can overcome my weakness on my own if I—"

Avares bolted up and snapped, her voice stern. "So grief is a weakness, eh? Well what about Hulgar? He was the greatest leader I knew. Under his guidance, we had a good string of successes going for us—which is more than the _Companions_ could ever hope for these days. As Stormriders, the loss of our leader wounds us all. Is our pain a weakness?"

The Dunmer reached her thumb and index finger between her breasts and pulled out the amulet of Talos she had examined earlier. "Not only did he serve as the ideal for Stormrider recruits to live up to, but he also provided affectionate companionship to those he cared for. Before we left for Blackreach, he gave me this amulet and vowed to spend our job's earnings funding our wedding in Fort Mammon—among our fellow Stormriders! By rights, I should wake up every morning and find myself in his arms, but instead I see only an empty space where my lover used to be. Every morning I awaken alone stabs my heart, I loved him so much! Is my grief a weakness?

"I don't know what impossible standard compels you to see grief and anguish as a weakness, but not even your father lived by it! On our way to the underground ruin, we passed a run-down shrine of Zenithar along the road. He walked up to that shrine and knelt before it. And I swear by Azura I saw a tear leave his eyes. Are you willing to call your own father's longing for his dead wife a weakness?"

Erissa was stunned. After a few minutes of stammering incoherently, she cast her head down, tears streaming anew. "My apologies," she murmured contritely. "I never meant to demean anyone or ridicule emotional turmoil. I just want to move on—to be able to tend to my responsibilities without wallowing in emotional distractions. I never meant to burden anyone with my problems, least of all you."

"I know, Erissa," Avares said sympathetically. "I'm only trying to help you. And while it's true that wallowing in your own grief is unhealthy, suppressing it is equally inimical to your wellbeing. Like I said, you could really use a friend right now. I know I want a friend to comfort me right now. Now, will you tell me what's wrong?"

Erissa returned to her alchemy, but she indulged Avares nonetheless. "Like you said, I still miss Dad dearly. We went through so much together since Mom died during the Great War. We fled from Cyrodiil to Skyrim against all odds. Continuing now without him is such a daunting prospect. I just want to know I have the strength to do it."

"I'm sure you can. Erissa, from what I've seen of you, you can easily go it alone. But there are merits to having good friends who want to help you, too. Think about all I've told you next time you're feeling down."

With that, Avares walked back to her bedroll away from the campfire, leaving Erissa to her potions.

**oOo**

"Fetch me more magicka restoratives!" Nemo, a blunt Imperial with a gruff demeanor, barked commandingly to his novice assistant. When the novice left, he turned back to the task at hand—and what a task it was!

Several hours ago, a few soldiers had brought the body to him for healing, claiming they had found it lying a few dozen kilometers from the Lost City. The body's angular features bore the accents of a high elf. The Altmer's blonde hair and goatee were caked with clotted blood. His skin lacked the vibrant gold tone characteristic of his race, the lost blood leaving it a pale ivory color. Despite the jury-rigged mending the soldiers had done, evidenced by the liberal amount of casting holding the limbs in place and the bloody bandages covering the otherwise nude body, many of the bones and ligaments were obviously shattered and needed advanced treatment. _This guy is lucky I'm here to save him,_ thought Nemo._ What on Nirn did he run into?_

Maintaining his focus, Nemo brushed his grayish-black hair away from his patrician face as he continued his incantations, the glow of his spells merging with those of the other mages into a brilliant light that reflected off of the Dwemer plate armor the mages wore over their robes, illuminating the dimly lit lab. While the Altmer's skin color began to revert to its healthy gold hue, it was an arduous task to keep the spells going.

Yet as arduous as the task seemed, Nemo was glad to have his latest invention, a device he called the arcane catalyst, working at last. To the Imperial's right sat a heavy Dwemer metal box, humming loudly as the filled black soul gem sent rhythmic pulses through the insulated copper wiring stretching from the box. The pulses quickly reached the end of the wiring, surging into the blue orb nested within a bronze-colored crown hooked up to the Altmer's forehead. Nemo beamed with pride as he saw the blue aura leap out of the crown and envelop the elf, accelerating the effects of his and the mages' healing spells. _Yes!_ Nemo congratulated himself. _The catalyst works!_

Nemo had been working on the catalyst for several months. Utilizing Dwemer plans as well as his own ingenuity, he had assembled all the Dwemer scrap metal he could accumulate within short notice into the apparatus currently deployed. His idea that a black soul could channel extra magicka into the target of a healing spell was inspired by the Dwemer plans he used. After all, the automatons used soul gems to power them, so why couldn't the catalyst?

But despite the catalyst's assistance, the severity of the high elf's injuries made Nemo's work much harder. Roughly forty-five minutes passed as Nemo repeated the mantra of invigoration. As the Imperial began to reach the limits of his magicka, he broke out in a sweat, struggling to concentrate on his incantations while running on the last vestiges of his magicka. Straining, he nevertheless pressed onward, thinking encouraging thoughts. _Come on, Nemo, you can do it. You saw worse in the Legion! Just a little longer . . . _

Just when he began to give out, the novice returned with a large tray of glass cyan bottles. "Forty-three heavy-duty magicka restoratives, sir."

"Excellent!" Nemo exclaimed, pointing a trembling, sweaty finger toward a table to his right. "Just set them right there."

The Imperial, along with a few of the mages, quickly flocked toward the tray of bottles while the rest continued their incantations. After downing a couple potions, Nemo rejoined the casting mages and redoubled his own efforts. Rearranging limbs and chanting the mantra, Nemo worked for three and a half hours treating the elf's injuries. Fifteen bottles later, he started making progress as his patient's limbs regained their form and articulation. Twenty bottles saw the elf's musculature reform into its proper shape. Nemo spent half of his magicka on spellcasting when the more superficial wounds started to heal.

After a few more minutes, the Altmer began to shift and stir, every injury fully mended as he slowly regained consciousness. As the mages stopped their spellcasting, Nemo turned to the novice assistant.

"Get a sedative," Nemo ordered, a proud smile enveloping the Imperial's face. "Our friend here is coming to."

**oOo**

The miasma of colors danced and twirled in the night sky like the rhythmic tides of the Abecean Sea, illuminating the city of Riften in a motley display of light. Yet despite the radiant aura of Skyrim's night sky, the entire city seethed with a threatening ambiance. Shadows lay among the city streets, concealing all manner of potential dangers and criminals looking for their next victim. The buildings flanked the streets like ghostly spectators, their façades malnourished and poorly kept by their tenants but nevertheless belying a once regal and affluent prestige. These inert observers peered out in all directions, their walls bearing testament to all manner of secrets witnessed anywhere from the menacing streets to the foreboding alleyways between structures.

With the Rift having the luxury of mildly cool winters, the unnatural chill in the night air further reinforced the ominous atmosphere. A slight breeze glided through the city, gently nudging the myriad trees and shrubs scattered throughout the land-based district left and right as it passed them. Few people were out and about.

As eerie as that seemed, however, it did not perturb Mjoll the Lioness. Having lived within Riften's walls for several years on her friend Aerin's dole, the giant of a Nord grew used to the threatening aura that hung over the city. Indeed, she learned that, of all the three districts comprising the city, Dryside district was the safest. The cluster of wealthy residences had but a modest sum of rich residents, luring any criminal opportunists lurking in the shadows toward the vast estates and away from pedestrian thru-traffic. If only she could say that about the other two districts—Plankside and the docks . . .

As Riften's resident political activist, Mjoll strived to see that all of the city's social woes were tended to with utmost care. She took charge in the affairs of Beggars Row, aided the many charities hosted by the Benevolence of Mara, and fought local mead tycoon Maven Black-Briar and her friends in the Thieves Guild every chance she could. But despite her efforts, preserving Riften's wellbeing was growing into an even worse problem. Having spent most of her wealth on tithes to Mara, Mjoll was nearly broke, and she needed more moral support to keep her crusade going. After countless bouts of weaving through alleyways and streets, she finally found the place that offered the support she needed.

Segregated from the rest of the city sat the Benevolence of Mara, a lavish temple that towered over most other buildings in the district. Wrapping around the Benevolence's thick columns were bas-reliefs depicting hunched, disfigured people cowering in anguish, misery, and poverty. Equally extravagant was the entablature perched atop the capitals of the columns, the frieze gilded in a large relief portraying mass congregations huddled within Mara's embrace. The vast gardens encircling the Benevolence sported spectacular flora from all parts of Tamriel, bundles of lavender intermingled with groups of Dragon's Tongue, and shrubs native to Cyrodiil sat underneath small trees from High Rock. Sculptures of Mara and her faithful kept eternal vigil over the property and supervised Mjoll's every step toward the Benevolence.

As she stepped inside, Mjoll scanned the rows of pews, noting the few people in attendance this late at night. Most of them were priests of Mara tending to their duties, but a few were residents from Beggars Row seeking food and shelter. The Nord found a vacant spot beside a fresco of Mara scorning a usurer and began praying.

_Lady Mara, forgive me for failing to uphold your ideals of social justice and equality. My endeavors grow more and more troublesome and difficult as the citizens of Riften continue to wallow in their own personal suffering._

Mjoll recounted the numerous times she saw beggars swarm around the shops of Merchant's Square, pleading for scraps of food. While Bolli and Bersi Honey-Hand sympathized with the poor, the former practically throwing sacks of gold left and right, the other merchants turned them away, citing personal misfortune and merit as their justifications for denying the poor. She even remembered Brand-Shei, a Dunmeri merchant, regard the beggars with scorn. _All they do is mooch off of honest, productive folk,_ the dark elf had said. _If they really wanted to better themselves, they would earn my coin—not beg for it!_ With that image in her mind, Mjoll continued her prayer.

_Lady Mara, grant me the strength to show these people that cooperation, kindness, and concern for one's fellow man will win over the misery. Help me show them that their own suffering is insignificant to that of the less fortunate and that they should look out for them. They ignore our calls for faith in your benevolence and neglect their duty to defend the welfare of all. Please, milady, help me show them what it is like to care about others, to love them as you do._

"Good to see you, Mjoll," a priest of Mara said, interrupting her prayer. "I was hoping to find you here."

"Nice to see you too, Maramal. I actually need to speak to you—it's about my work here in Riften."

The Redguard smiled. "Of course. You can tell me anything. Just follow me."

Maramal led Mjoll into a backroom stuffed full of storage boxes, turning toward her when they both reached the center of the room. "Now," the priest asked. "What can I help you with?"

The Nord shrugged. "It's getting more difficult to reach the people of Riften. The more I try to save them, the more wrapped up in their own suffering they get. There are people who are suffering much worse than they are, yet they don't seem to care." She sighed. "Where am I going wrong?"

Maramal raised an eyebrow at her knowingly. "Did you pray for guidance?"

"Yes. A few minutes ago, in fact."

"And did you donate money to the temple?"

Mjoll frowned regretfully. "I was only able to give thirty gold last week. Aerin and I are running low on money ourselves." She quickly added, "But we still try to pay our tithes generously."

The Redguard frowned. "Apparently not generously enough. Remember, Mara will grant you her strength if you donate to the temple faithfully. Try that, and Mara will listen to your plea for help."

A small part of Mjoll felt dejected at the advice Maramal gave her, thinking for a moment that he didn't care about her need for help. However, she suppressed her misgivings and nodded respectfully. "I see. Thank you for your guidance."

"I'm always glad to help," Maramal replied.

As the Nord left the storage room, she was disturbed by a strange feeling within the inner depths of her mind. Though it wasn't outright fear, it might as well have been. Mjoll was in a state of heightened unease, yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't figure out the reason for her apprehension. _Maramal is right,_ she reiterated to herself. _It is my duty to see to the needs of my fellow man, to provide for the just welfare of the needy. But what if I can't afford it? I can't fulfill my duty if I can't pay off my dues. What am I to do?_

Before she could think any further, a large man burst through the front doors of the Benevolence, his brawny frame clad in furs covered by ebony plating. The man, his blonde hair sweeping in front of his blue eyes, wore a determined scowl that showed an ambition—a drive to accomplish his task. He stomped between the pews, scanning the temple intently. "Mjoll the Lioness," he called out.

Mjoll strode up to the man, waving her hand toward him. "I'm here! Do you need something?"

The man stared down at her, a blank expression on his face. "Jarl Laila Law-Giver requests your presence immediately. Come with me."

The big man then led Mjoll through the maze of wealthy homes toward a large brick structure that towered over Dryside. The stone building's stained glass windows glowed yellow with light, illuminating the stylized cornices. Mjoll gaped at the architecture with both awe and dread. _Mistveil Keep._

Inside the keep, a giant longtable held plates upon plates of decadent food served to the jarl's retainers. The jarl herself, a slim Nord with a regal visage, sat in a throne that looked small compared to the massive feast and stained glass windows depicting the feats of past jarls. The jarl looked at Mjoll expectantly as the big warrior approached the throne.

"You requested my presence, my jarl," Mjoll asked humbly.

"Indeed, I did," Jarl Laila said. "I have something very important for you. Something that could help all of Riften."

The jarl pulled out a few slips of paper and handed them to Mjoll. "I assume you're aware of the disappearances, right?"

The warrior nodded, remembering the many shops in Plankside district that mysteriously closed. "I've always feared for the people of Riften. They can't fare well without these businessmen, and they don't know what is happening."

"That's what I figured. I had planned to summon you tomorrow morning, but this is a matter that cannot wait. Besides, I knew you would be in the Benevolence of Mara at night, and—to be frank—you're one of the only ones I can trust with issues like this these days.

"Anyway, more businesses have closed and their owners dropped off the face of Tamriel. Elgrim of Elgrim's Elixirs, Mikhail Jerkhov of Jerkhov's Goods, and Danielle Lyons of Lyons's Libations have all joined the ranks of the missing entrepreneurs; and Balimund's threatening to leave next. If this trend doesn't stop, every shopkeeper, tavern proprietor, and business owner will cut their losses and run. These businessmen are taking their profits with them, and we can't let them sink Riften to the ground.

"The Riften Watch in Ivarstead made a breakthrough in the past few days that could help us, however. A couple of watchmen noticed strange activity within a few Dwemer ruins dotting the border between Skyrim and Morrowind. They reported seeing strange lights and shadowy figures skulking about the countryside. I want you to head toward that group of Dwemer ruins and investigate these phenomena."

The jarl gazed upon Mjoll with an empathetic look. "I'm certain you will succeed in this. You may leave as soon as you're ready."

With a salute, Mjoll the Lioness left Mistveil Keep to rest. She would need to be at her best in order to fulfill her orders.


End file.
